


Keep Going

by Lunamcwerewolf



Series: Runaway [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Brain Damage, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Medical Trauma, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott and Lydia are good friends, Sheriff Stilinski isn't coping well, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, the judicial system fucking sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24859003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunamcwerewolf/pseuds/Lunamcwerewolf
Summary: Sequel to "Runaway."---Stiles has been home for a month, slowly readjusting to his old life. Or rather, trying to. But the judicial system has other plans for him. He survived Peter, but will he survive the aftermath?
Series: Runaway [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798546
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a solid few years now because once the idea popped into my head it positively refused to leave.  
> I don't think you necessarily HAVE to read the first part ("Runaway") to read this, but it'd probably make more sense that way.  
> Thank you to my incredible beta readers and friends for helping to free me from this monstrous project. <3

“How are your nightmares—any better?”

Stiles paused, trying to imagine what ‘ _ better’ _ would look like. “No,” he said, gaze fixed on his hands, clasped together like they might otherwise dissolve. He looked down at the line of broken skin he’d scratched into his thumb, blood beginning to seep out. His hospital-appointed psychiatrist—Dr. Rosa “ _ Butterfly Earrings _ ” DeMayo— had been trying to get him to stop, but sometimes that slight burn was the only thing reminding him any of this was real. Like  _ he _ might otherwise dissolve. Don’t misunderstand, there was plenty of other pain Stiles felt at all times, but that was different. You got used to that. And, technically, those were all healing. Technically.

“In our last session, you said that they’re always the same.”

“More or less.”

“That it’s always you fighting off Peter and losing.” He couldn’t help himself, a small laugh escaped his lips as he considered how fucking insane this all was. “What?”  Butterfly Earrings Dr. DeMayo said, tilting her head slightly.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his tired face, accidentally pulling a few hairs loose from the haphazard ponytail keeping his long hair out of the way. “I just think it’s ridiculous that I still wake up, every morning, in a pool of sweat, afraid for my life, when the man I’m so terrified of isn’t…” She’d been urging him to use the word “dead,” but considering the circumstances, coming even that close was progress. After all, was he dead? Or murdered? Or passed on? As far as Stiles was concerned, Peter was alive and active as ever—even if it was only in his mind.

“But you understand that Peter can never hurt you again. Right, Stiles?” She asked this at least once a session. Though, to be fair, he always shrugged in response. Logically, yes, he understood—but logic made up a whopping 10% of his brain activity these days.

DeMayo sighed, disappointed by the same old answer. “Have you noticed any changes since going on antidepressants?”

Stiles thought about it. The list was small, but promising, he supposed. “Um, yeah, I’ve actually been getting out of bed so my sores are starting to heal. Um… Dad says I’m eating more, but I don’t know if that’s true.”

“What do your doctors say?”

He shifted uneasily, every joint and individual cell on fire. “That I’ve gained a little weight since coming home, but still have a long way to go.” The same way everyone talked about everything.  _ Just give it some time. It’ll take some time. You’ll get there eventually. _

“How about Scott and Lydia? Have they commented on any changes?”

“Not really. We don’t talk about that kind of stuff.”

“What do you talk about?”

He shrugged. “Normal stuff. Homework. They keep me up-to-date on school drama even though I don’t technically go there anymore.”

“Ah, sounds like they’re helping you return to normalcy,” DeMayo chimed, the warmth of her smile coupled with that of her skin radiating across the small room.

Stiles wanted to roll his eyes—as if such a concept even existed anymore. Normalcy went out the window the moment he left that diner with Peter Hale. “They’re trying,” he said. “I guess.”

DeMayo nudged a bowl of chocolates across the coffee table, signaling the end of their bi-weekly session. Stiles knew it was just glorified puppy training (i.e. “do something right, get a treat”), but he couldn’t be bothered to really care. Chocolate produced dopamine and he could use all the dopamine possible.

After much consideration, the powers that be decided he could start driving again, so long as it wasn’t far or after dark. The drive home from therapy was one of the few simple joys in his day-to-day life. Seeing as he was now “homeschooled,” it was easy to avoid rush-hour traffic. And other than that, the streets of Beacon Hills were basically empty. He could drive in silence, genuinely calm for the only time he got to spend alone, and in his very own Jeep. This may have been where Stiles was kidnapped (technically), but the Jeep had so many better, happier memories to make him feel safe. The day the cops found his baby was the best day of his life… Besides, you know, getting rescued.

…

Wiping his feet on the oldest welcome mat in the world, Stiles stepped over the threshold into his home just in time to hear the tail end of an aggravated phone call. One of many.

“Yes, I understand that,” the Sheriff said. “And we appreciate your perspective on the matter, but my son has already said that he won’t be doing any interviews… No, absolutely not... I don’t care how much you offer. Have a nice day.”  _ SLAM! _ Why they even still had a landline was beyond him.

“Who was that?” he asked, leaning gingerly against the doorway to the kitchen to take the pressure off his poorly healed ribs.

“Someone else promising to make us rich.”

“Sounds like a bargain. What’s the catch?” The corner of the Sheriff’s mouth quirked up into an almost-smile. Over the last month as more and more offers came in—live TV interview, book deal,  _ Lifetime _ movie based on his experience—Stiles had begun jokingly calling him his “manager.” And it lightened the mood like it was supposed to, at least a little. Neither of them even had a clue how every major news company in the U.S. got their home phone number.

“You’d have to sell your soul to Big News™,” Noah replied, running a hand over his face as he took a deep and much needed sigh.

Stiles shrugged. “I could do that. We could make some nice renovations with that kinda money.” His dad laughed. It was a good sound. A regrettably uncommon one. He sincerely wished he did more to make his dad happy, but that was asking quite a lot when just getting out of bed was a chore. He recalled something his dad had said to him a few days after waking up in the hospital: “I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humor.” How fucked up was that?  _ I know you were tortured for months on end, but at least you remember how to laugh at things.  _ He knew that wasn’t how it was meant, but that’s exactly how it felt. Lots of people said stuff like that—stuff that basically meant: “I’m glad you aren’t totally dead inside.” To which Stiles’s brain always wanted to respond, “Jokes on you!”

Not that he did ever say it. He suspected no one else would find that funny. Dr. DeMayo kept reminding him that he wasn’t the “only one out there to have this type of trauma.” But it wasn’t exactly like he could pop into the nearest support group for victims of prolonged kidnapping. It was a pretty isolated incident. And a pretty isolated person. Even his dad didn’t know about everything that went down. He’d been given a few weeks of paid leave for obvious reasons and therefore, wasn’t at the station as they investigated. But Stiles was relieved about that. He didn’t want him to know. Didn’t want to hurt him again. He’d seen pictures of the “crime scene,” but that was really about it. Dr. DeMayo kept encouraging Stiles to tell his dad what happened, but he could barely look the man in the eye knowing how much pain he caused making a stupid mistake like trusting that son of a bitch Peter. If Stiles could have had his way, his dad wouldn’t even remember it ever happened.

“What do you want for dinner?” the Sheriff asked, strategically avoiding Stiles’s eyes in that way he’d recently perfected. Instead busying himself with loading the dishwasher. It wasn’t the eye contact that troubled him, Stiles discovered, but the scar that obscured a good third of his face. Thankfully, it hadn’t hurt anything vital—like an eye—, but cemented the fact that there was a Stiles before the “incident” and a Stiles after. Hell, it was practically Peter’s signature, a sign of ownership.

__ __ “Dad,” he started, voice barely a whisper. “Would you look at me?”

“I am,” the Sheriff said without missing a beat, never taking his eyes off the task at hand. Both men knew it was a pitiful lie, but neither were willing to admit it. This was just the way things were now. While Stiles had never felt terribly attractive, he felt that he gained a new understanding of ‘ugly’ every time he looked in the mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Always the same — more or less. _

__ __ The moment Stiles closed his eyes at night, it was a fight to the death. The same goal placed in different settings.  _ Just don’t die. _

__ __ _ You have to make it home. _

__ __ _ Survive for Dad.  _ And every night, he lost. The last few seconds were an amalgamation of blood and pain, claws with a needle’s point tearing through flesh. And every night, he woke up screaming for mercy. Now, almost two months after returning home, his dad had stopped rushing into his room each time. Otherwise, neither would get any sleep.

Tonight, it was at the cabin. His blood hitting the snow-covered ground with startling contrast. Peter, silhouetted by the full moon rising, more beast than man. He came at Stiles with merciless fury. This wasn’t a fight to him, it was a war. Peter saw himself as the lion preparing to swallow a gladiator whole.

Glancing down, Stiles saw pieces of himself lying dead in the snow—a chunk of flesh, an arm, an ear—all foreshadowing his undoubtedly grizzly end. For a moment, he looked up to find himself alone, a warm light in the distance beckoning him forth to safety. Without stopping to think, Stiles took off in the direction of the light, mere moments away from freedom. If he could just get across the brush into the yard, everything would be fine. Just like last time.

And then he wasn’t moving. Wasn’t able to move his legs forward. A low, gravely chuckle reverberated through his head before he hit the ground with a bone-crushing severity. Stiles opened his eyes once more to see the blood-splattered boots of his foe who then stepped aside to reveal his own body, severed at the neck. A blood-curdling sound erupted from deep within Stiles’s soul and suddenly, he was back at home, sat in bed with his back pressed against the headboard, staring at the door to his room as though Peter might enter at any minute. He waited for the sound of his dad racing across the hall to check on him, but heard nothing.  _ Maybe I didn’t actually scream this time, _ he thought.  _ And anyway, he needs to sleep. _ As he made excuses for the unmistakable absence, tears threatened to fall from his tired eyes. He just wanted a hug. Sometimes that was all Stiles could ask for, someone to hold him close and remind him that he was safe. To say it as many times as he needed to really believe it. And to understand that sometimes he just couldn’t believe it at all.

Like most nights, Stiles would lie awake in a vigilant trance until the morning sun allowed him to fall asleep safely, knowing that nothing was hiding in the dark corners of his room.

…

When he awoke later that day, it was to the sound of Scott and Lydia calling his name. Opening his eyes to find himself face-to-face with a pair of men’s shoes had him scrambling to his feet in a panic, eyeing all the exits.

“Hey! Hey, woah. It’s just us, Stiles.” He slowed down long enough to get a good look at the two standing before him—Scott and Lydia. Normal. Safe. “Why were you on the floor?”

It took a good few seconds for his brain to process new information. _The floor. Why was he on…_ “Huh?” As the adrenaline faded, the pain in his severely burned foot came back with a vengeance. He pushed his chin-length hair back behind his ears where it refused to stay. As much as Stiles hated his long hair and hated being forced to grow it out, he just couldn’t get himself to cut it off. Especially after the nurses back in Colorado had worked so hard to de-matte it.

Lydia gestured to the carpeted living room floor around them. “You were sleeping on the floor.” Stiles took a calculated breath, rubbing his eyes as if to rid his mind of confusion. He shrugged. It was all he could do nowadays. People kept expecting him to know better than anyone what was happening, but he had the least clue of anyone. Watching as he shifted all weight to his uninjured foot, she quickly reached out in case he lost his balance. “Are you okay?”

“I must’ve sleepwalked. I do that sometimes.” He pushed the inner connection to wanting to escape as far back into his mind as possible before perching in the chair at the very back corner of the room. “And I haven’t taken my pain meds yet.” Since coming home, it’d become his favorite spot. He knew it probably had something to do with hyper vigilance or whatever, back against the wall, whole floor visible, but really couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Want me to get them?” Scott asked as he sat on the end of the sofa nearest to him, while Lydia chose the edge of the coffee table, perfectly in between the two, draping the fabric of her skirt over her lily-white legs.

“No, I just need to sit down.”

“Okay. Well,” Scott began, easily the worst of the three when it came to pretending there wasn’t a huge as fuck elephant in the room, threatening to trample them all. “How’ve you been?” Lydia rolled her eyes just enough so that Scott couldn’t see.

“Yeah, great,” Stiles said, wrapping both arms around his middle as if making sure it was still there. “Aside from the literally everything. Where are my glasses?” Those he was still getting used to and leaving God knows where. “Shit, they’re in my room.”

“I’ll get ‘em,” Scott said, jumping up from his seat like the fucking superhuman athlete he was.

“No, it’s fine. I can—” He was waved off before even finishing his sentence.

“I got it, dude.” They’d probably make fun of him relentlessly for needing glasses if everyone wasn’t so afraid he might kill himself all the time. Part of him just wanted to say, “Can you believe he literally beat the eyesight out of me?” But absolutely no one would laugh at that. Except him. Maybe not even him. Just another one of those things that’s so goddamn ridiculous it’s almost funny. Within a few seconds, Scott was back on the first floor, glasses and pills in hand, presenting them to Stiles like he was his ninety year-old grandpa. So fragile. So breakable.  _ Thanks, sonny. Have a butterscotch. _

Before any of them could try and force a conversation, the landline rang out obnoxiously. Stiles wasn’t allowed to answer it anymore considering ninety percent of the callers were journalists or whatever, but after it rang enough times that the disdain was palpable, his dad came bounding down the stairs, past the three of them, and straight to the phone.

“What?” That was how he answered nowadays. The three watched as they had nothing better to do, all unconsciously leaning forward as the Sheriff turned his back to them. “I-I’m sorry, um… I must have misheard you.” There was something in his voice like acid. He listened for another moment or two before letting the phone, still in hand, fall from his ear, only to place it back as he said, “If this is some kind of fucking prank, I swear to god--... No, but you can’t just--... No, I--...” The Sheriff fell silent as the dial tone rang out across the room, frozen perfectly still for the longest time before winding back and slamming the phone back into place hard enough for it to crack. Stiles’ had never seen him react to a call like that. Even now. After everything. This was something entirely new. And terrifying.

He took several deep breaths before pivoting on the kitchen threshold to face the teens, eyes cast down. “What was it?” Lydia asked, ever-present and ready to fight.

He ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away any visible signs of stress and leaned his hip against the doorway. “I… It’s nothing, kids. Don’t worry. Just another prank call.”

“Oh,” Lydia muttered, glancing over her shoulder at the other two to confirm that he was acting weird. “Okay. I mean, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he snapped a little too readily. After a moment’s hesitation, the sheriff dropped his head, frowning deeply, and busied himself by fixing something to eat.

Scott drew his phone from his pocket and started mindlessly scrolling as a distraction, not venturing any further than the homepages of whatever website came to mind. Lydia turned her attention back to Stiles, fixing the hem of her skirt once again (not that if ever came out of place).

“How are you?” she asked without speaking above a whisper, making sure to face his better ear. One of the few sounds Stiles not only could stand, but actively enjoyed. It made him think if this was what meditation was like for the sort of people who subscribe to that stuff.

Unlike with most people, her inquiry was completely sincere. She didn’t just mean ‘how was he in general’ or ‘are you alright or kind of alright?’ When she asked, he could tell it encompassed both the situation at large down to the last few uncomfortable seconds in particular. He shrugged. “Same as always – I guess. Mostly bored.”

She scoffed, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a half-smile. “I can’t imagine why.”  _ It’s not like you’re under unofficial house-arrest 24/7, save for doctor’s appointments and therapy. _

A small, but grand smile washed over his face, bringing color and life back if only momentarily. “’M just lazy,” he joked. “Good-for-nothin’ lay-about, ya know?” She shook her head, clicking her tongue disapprovingly,  _ tsk tsk tsk _ . From their periphery, the pair saw Scott sit up straight as a dart, tucking in the limbs that had previously been hanging over various bits of furniture.

“Uh, guys,” he said, eyes glued to his phone as they turned to face him, his expression utterly wild. Not clearly one emotion or another – just  _ big _ as though looking at something incomprehensible.

“What?” Lydia said at last, dragging Scott from his transfixion. Looking up at the two with eyes wide, he held his phone up for them to see. Printed across the screen, next to a photo of Stiles being discharged from the hospital, it read:  _ Beacon Hills Boy Charged for Murder _ .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of suicidal thoughts/tendencies

“What?!” Lydia exclaimed, climbing to her feet and taking the phone from Scott’s hand to inspect this very elaborate joke. “Where did you find this?”

Scott shrugged uneasily, his arms moving in a disjointed manner. “I-I dunno. I was just kinda mindlessly scrolling through stuff and there was a link.” He reached over to return to the previous site which was literally just the google homepage displaying Beacon Hills related articles toward the bottom of the screen. And there it was—Beacon Hills Boy—hidden amongst articles detailing politicians’ engaging in politics, local crime, and a fluff piece about a blind dog getting adopted. She clicked the link, taking her back to the article to skim, having to begin the same paragraphs over and over as anxiety wracked her mind.

“Lemme see,” Stiles said, rising uneasily to his feet and reaching out a shaky hand. Both of his friends froze in place, unconsciously guarding the phone. Or rather, guarding Stiles from it. “Just give it here.”

“Buddy, I don’t—”

“Give it!” Once placed in his hand, he allowed the phone to sit there momentarily as some part of his brain told him that if he didn’t look maybe it wouldn’t be true. And then he looked. And he saw. And it was so much worse than he ever could have imagined.

BEACON HILLS BOY CHARGED WITH MURDER

18-year-old Beacon Hills native and beloved member of the community,  Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski was reportedly charged with the murder of Peter Hale, the very man who allegedly kidnapped and held Stilinski captive for several months last year.

Investigators say they have “sufficient evidence” to reopen the case that was closed only a little over a month ago when Stilinski was found and brought home.

The man leading the charge (and prosecuting attorney already assigned to it), Matthew Dempster, has this to say when confronted: “I can’t imagine what Mr. Stilinski went through those many months in captivity and I’m not here to pretend Peter Hale was innocent by any means,

“but there is a fine line between manslaughter in self-defense and premeditated murder. And I intend to collect every piece of evidence available to help the people of Beacon Hills decide what really happened.” 

For a long time after that, Stiles didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare to exist. This would later be accurately defined as ‘being in shock,’ but at the time he felt like if he stayed still long enough, he might simply cease to be. Shed his corporeal form and melt into the atmosphere. Sadly though, this did not happen. He stayed firmly in place, just like always.

“Stiles?” Lydia implored in that soft tone he liked, failing to comfort him like it had so many times before.

“Sheriff,” Scott called out.

And Stiles watched as the world spun around him, fading in and out of focus until his new glasses no longer served a purpose. The strawberry blonde color of Lydia’s hair never strayed more than a foot from his side while the two other shapeless figures slipped into the kitchen. Somewhere in the back of his mind Stiles could hear Lydia reminding him to breathe over the distant sound of his father trying not to cry. He’d later come to find that the ‘prank call’ was actually someone down at the station warning them of what was to come. Neither of his friends would leave until the next morning, most likely instructed to keep an eye on him. And though he didn’t sleep a wink, Stiles wouldn’t be able to recount a single moment of that day if his life depended on it.

…

The sheriff had come very close to unplugging the landline altogether and being done with it, though it’s a good thing he didn’t as the first ever helpful phone call came in bright and early the next day. [ES1]  A defense attorney who’d heard about the case and wanted to work it pro-bono. She described the conviction as “a human rights abuse” and the prosecutor already assigned to it as “Satan in a cheap suit.” Guess they had a history.

Stiles left for his appointment while they were still talking, his father sat at the kitchen table, staring intently at the wall.

Stepping into DeMayo’s office, they went through their bi-weekly routine. “How are you, Stiles?”

“Fine. You?”

“I’m good. How are you sleeping?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“. . . Normal.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah.”

“Every night?”

“Yeah.”

Pleasantries out of the way, the doctor gave him a look he hadn’t seen since they first met—a look of “this poor motherfucker. What’re we going to do?”

She asked if he was feeling suicidal. He answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

She changed the question. “Do you feel threatened by yourself?”

Again, he answered honestly. “I feel threatened by the people trying to send me to prison.” Stiles quickly broke down, allowing himself to feel the full weight of these circumstances for the first time. He cried so hard for so long that eventually the doctor just pulled him into a hug. It was all she could do at that point. And really, it was all he wanted anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

They had an appointment to meet with the attorney later that week. Everything was moving so quickly. Everything. And Stiles couldn’t keep up, whether mentally or physically. Since he got home, everyone seemed to be in such a rush all the time. Especially when they were doting on him. It was like something he remembered from a dream—a past life, one that was no longer his. The year spent with Peter was somehow both the longest year of his life and a microscopic blip in time. Almost like a dream. But he was awake now, and awake people prefer to rush.

…

The attorney’s office was nice—nothing but polished mahogany and leather-bound books stacked to the ceiling in matching bookcases. It was quite a drive to get there, but supposedly worth it.

She greeted them at the door which displayed a plaque of her title: “Eleuia Tecuatl, Esq.” “Hi, Mr. Stilinski, good to meet you. Please come in.” Her attention then turned to Stiles, the same curious look he’d become all too accustomed with, but she at least had the decency to hide it a bit. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she escorted him into the room after his father. “Stiles, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Please, take a seat,” she said, leading them into a lounge area—presumably trying to seem casual and friendly. This only made Stiles more hesitant of her.

“Okay,” the sheriff began, “where do we… I mean… what…” He sighed. “What do we do?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “That’s exactly what we’re here to discuss. Now, a court date hasn’t been set yet, but I imagine it will any day and my responsibility is to make sure that I know everything there is about your time with Peter Hale.” She turned her head just slightly to look Stiles dead in the eye. “I have faith in you, Stiles. And faith in the fact that that man got what was coming to him.

“So,” she paused, looking back and forth between the two, “will you let me represent you?”

The sheriff quickly turned to his son, unable to read past his hardened exterior. “Can we discuss it between us for a minute?”

“Of course,” the attorney said, hopping up from her chair and crossing the room to her office. “Take all the time you need. I’ll give you some privacy.”

The sheriff turned in his chair and scooted forward, knees knocking against Stiles’s. “I know what I think, but this is ultimately up to you, son. How’re you feeling?”

Stiles let his gaze fall to the floor, hands folded in his lap. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he felt. He didn’t feel much of anything these days. Sure, she seemed nice and certainly competent, but that doesn’t guarantee a win. Then again, she was offering to represent him for free and his dad definitely couldn’t afford an attorney’s bill. Especially one this nice.

“Okay.”

“O-okay what?”

“Okay. Let’s do it.” The sheriff’s face lit up like it hadn’t in years. He was ecstatic and for a second, Stiles forgot all about everything else. The fact that he could make that happen was fuel enough to get through one more day. So his dad hopped out of his seat, practically floating over to the closed office door, and knocked politely. His expression was answer enough as when she opened the door, she instantly knew.  _ I would imagine,  _ Stiles thought,  _ feeling some sort of occupational pride. She nabbed the  _ ‘Beacon Hills Boy.’  _ An unbelievably high-profile case. I guess she  _ should _ be proud. _

The Stilinski’s filled out a surprising amount of paperwork, another appointment was set within the same week, and as they stepped back through the threshold of that plaquered door, the attorney laid a hand on Stiles’s shoulder and said, “We can do this.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of past abuse and torture, as well as mob mentality and hopelessness
> 
> (If any of these things might trigger you, please think carefully before proceeding. You are not alone in your struggles. Never use a permanent solution to a temporary problem. In case you need help, the National Suicide Prevention lifeline is 1-800-273-8255 or go to suicidepreventionlifeline.org for more resources. <3)

It took no time at all for the press to turn on him once the information about the pending trial got out. Stiles never thought he’d miss seeing his sunken-in face next to headlines such as:  _ ‘Hero Teen Escapes Kidnapper,’ _ or  _ ‘Beacon Hills Boy Home at Last.’  _ That is, until he so much as glanced at that day’s paper, which read in big, bold letters:  _ ‘Self-made Hero or Cold-blooded Killer?’ _ next to a heavily pixelated crime scene photo and as usual, his own stupid face.

Something came over him upon seeing this. Maybe it was too much, like being back in that house, watching carefully as for months they grew no closer to finding him. Because he  _ ‘ran away.’ _ He  _ ‘was a bad kid.’ ‘A delinquent.’ _ ‘ _ He got what was coming to him. _ ’ In a blind rage Stiles grabbed the stack of papers and darted into the kitchen, turning on one of the burners. He watched as the pages quickly caught fire, throwing it haphazardly into the sink. Not even the sound of the smoke alarm could wake him from his stupor.

“What the hell are you doing?” his father exclaimed upon reaching the first floor and rushing to the source of the smoke. He turned the faucet on, drowning the flames in a rush of cold water. Stiles didn’t answer, nor did he need to. As soon as his father’s panic began to settle, he looked at what remained of the headline and instantly understood. “Oh, Stiles.” Looking up in an attempt to find his son’s eye, to communicate whatever sympathy he could, he noticed the ragged old cap covering Stiles’s face. But even more so, the lack of hair sticking out from beneath it.

Stiles was looking at the floor, hiding his carefully expressionless face. His dad took a step toward him and he immediately recoiled. Another step. One at a time until he was close enough to gently pry to hat off and see what horrors lay beneath. Sometime during the night, Stiles had shaved the hair he’d been forced to grow out. A sign of rebellion—of life, that inspired a kind of confidence the sheriff hadn’t yet known. He’d tried to strip away the pieces of the last year, but in true fashion of this story, it only stood to uncover more pain.

Scars. He was covered in them. Head-to-toe. Quite literally… which might be funny if not for the irreparable damage. Underneath the mass of nearly matted hair he’d spent the last year growing out were just more scars. This one from his head colliding with the edge of a table. This one, being dragged by his hair. Another, from a spray of glass. Though he couldn’t even place them all. Some just as much a mystery to him as they were to his father. Peter had made sure Stiles would never be able to ignore his abuse. And he succeeded. Even getting away in the end, never having to own up to his actions. But Stiles—he would spend the rest of his life learning to live with the memories. Peter won. Simple as that. He got exactly what he wanted. Leaving Stiles with even more obstacles from beyond the goddamn grave.

He won.

…

Despite the pain it caused him, having so many visible scars proved helpful to the case and motivating for Ms. Tecuatl. She was absolutely horrified upon the reveal of what lay beneath his untamed hair, and the process began.

Stiles spent hours in that office going through even the smallest details of his case. The attorney kept insisting they stop for the day, but he was determined to get this shit done as quickly as possible. She asked about the kidnapping itself. Asked about the first thing he remembered after waking up. The first time Peter attacked him. The house. The basement. What his day to day life had become at the hands of Peter Hale. And yes, he broke down many times, but insisted they continue, sometimes stopping for only a minute to let the memories fade.

He told her of his first attempt to escape and how horribly it backfired, trying not to notice the swell of tears that flooded her eyes before she could wipe them away like nothing happened.

“Did you want to kill Peter?” she asked over the paper-strewn surface of her desk.

Stiles paused to think, knowing that the wrong answer could be disastrous, but also wanting nothing more than to tell the truth. “Not at first.”

Ms. Tecuatl drew her shoulders up and back, hands folded on the desk before her. She watched him carefully, reading every micro-expression that passed over his tired face. “So… at some point… you did.”

He took a deep breath, instinctively wincing at the pain that used to be there and the discomfort that remained. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Seemed like a dumb question, but hostility would get him nowhere. “Because he almost killed me more than once.”

“Can you elaborate?”

_ One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five,  _ he counted, tapping the matching fingers in sequence on his knee. “Well, he beat me half to death more times than I can remember,” he said through barred teeth, struggling to keep any semblance of composure. “Almost let me starve to death. Left me out in the snow. Locked me in a basement in summer in the desert. And arguably tried to drown me a whole bunch of times.”

The room fell silent, Ms. Tecuatl looking back and forth at him and the wall behind him. Not sure where to look. What to feel. This was her job, she had to keep it together. “And you think he did these things with the intent to kill you?”

Stiles exhaled a laugh, throwing her aback, a shiver running down her spine. “No.”

“No?”

He let out a deep breath, the corners of his mouth quirking up like it physically hurt him to smile. “He was never going to let me die.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter includes graphic descriptions of injuries as well as victim blaming.

Late February rolled around while no one was watching—the court date had arrived. He was in a suit. An old one that hung on his emaciated frame like a goddamn curtain. He was reassured that it would help ‘sell the image.’ _Fucking great,_ he thought. _Glad to help._

He’d been instructed on how to dress, how to act, how to speak—and at some point, he started to ask himself if any of it was real. Blue shirt, because people respond sympathetically to the color blue. What little hair he had washed and combed the night before to show he was a ‘good kid.’ To convince them. Deceive them. If he had to work this hard to prove he was a half-decent human being, maybe he wasn’t. That seemed plenty simple. Almost idiotically so.

Entering the courthouse, Stiles fixated on the fact that he looked like shit because he hadn’t been able to sleep at all the night before. _Oh, don’t worry,_ a sarcastic voice in his head told him. _The bags under your eyes will just make people feel sorrier for you. It’s perfect!_ Awesome. Somehow, the space between arriving at the courthouse and the trial actually beginning disappeared. He remembered the feeling of waiting, the way anticipation clawed at his chest, tearing it open. But all that time was lost to him. Now in the courtroom. The courtroom of the courthouse to be judged by the court. Judged by the judge. Defended by the defense. He tried not to think of how stupid it all sounded as he passed the audience of reporters, the jurors, his father, friends, across the threshold to a part of the room sectioned off specifically for dirty criminals. Like him. Taking a seat behind a giant, wooden table. One that looked like it couldn’t belong anywhere _except_ a courtroom. He tried not to look at the judge sitting atop her throne like a vengeful god.

The judge asked both parties if they were ready. _Hell yeah,_ Stiles thought. _Can’t wait. Bring it on._ She continued, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You have been selected and sworn as the jury to try the case of the State of California versus Mieczyslaw "Stiles" Stilinski. It is your solemn responsibility to determine if the state proved accusations beyond a reasonable doubt against the defendant.

“Does the state care to make an opening statement at this time?” Some guy—the Prosecutor, who was he kidding—in a cheap, gray suit somehow worse than his own, stood, fixing his tie.

“Yes, your honor,” he said in a voice that could not be more stereotypical day-time TV lawyer if he tried.

“You may proceed.” Rounding his own giant-ass probably-mahogany table, the prosecutor moved to the front of the room, looking out into the bustling room like he was about to give a sermon. Shit, maybe he was.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of Beacon Hills. I thank you for joining us today despite the unfortunate circumstances which brought us all here.” _Us? Us?!_ _The line at Starbucks must have been reprehensible this morning._ “I’m sure you’ve learned much about the case throughout the jury selection process—you understand the foundation of this case.” _Wow, really laying it on thick there, buddy._ “But the real reason we are all gathered in this courtroom is to answer one simple question—” Stiles’s breath caught in his throat. “Is it ever okay to take someone’s life?” _Fuck. He was fucked. This was it. Stiles was going to jail forever and he probably deserved it. Maybe he’d at least get some sick ink in the slammer. FUCK. That wasn’t funny! Shut up!_

“Peter Hale was born right here in Beacon Hills to a large and loving family. A family that was violently taken from him as a young adult. Peter watched as his entire family was burned alive, miraculously making it out only to spend the next decade of his life in a traumatized fugue state, being cared for by the good doctor’s at Beacon Hills Hospital.” _What a saint. Everyone knows trauma makes you a better person._ “Now, he did have one relative to survive—Derek, his nephew who was only fourteen at the time of the fire. Who left him in that hospital room, alone, for ten years. Never bothering to visit. To try and coax his uncle back to life. Peter was well and truly alone. Does this excuse his actions?” _Absolutely!_ “Of course not.” _Oh._ “But he isn’t the one on trial today.” _Well, damn. I feel bad for whatever poor sonuvabitch—_ This knock-off George Clooney-looking motherfucker couldn’t even give Stiles time to finish his sarcastic internal monologue before jumping back into his sermon.

“In the wake of the fire, it seems Peter’s perspective on life—understandably—changed. He was no longer a carefree adult—in fact, spending all those many years preceding the tragedy alone in his mind. Imagine what that would do to even the sanest person out there.” _Let alone a born and bred sociopath._ “Imagine what it would do to you.” If Stiles had a death wish, he would’ve started slow clapping right then and there. This guy was sure schmoozing the hell out of that jury.

“Upon waking from his decade-long fugue state, Peter returned home to the burnt husk of what once was his entire world, and there, he found Derek. But this would not be a bittersweet reunion. His nephew—his only relative in the world—rejected him. And this is when we believe Peter snapped.” _Nice guys finish last, am I right?_ “All those years of unresolved trauma and isolation; reliving the day of the fire over and over, wishing he could have done something differently.”

Ms. Tecuatl stood up from her chair, proclaiming, “Objection, your honor. That’s speculation. The prosecution couldn’t possibly know what was going on inside Mr. Hale’s mind.” The sudden burst of sincerity almost knocked Stiles aback, overwhelming his sarcastic coping with genuine emotion he both appreciated and deeply loathed.

“Your honor,” the schmoozer schmoozed. “Every word is taken verbatim from our preliminary interview with Derek Hale.”

Looking between the two, brow furrowed, the judge said, “I’ll allow it. But tread lightly.”

“Thank you, your honor.” And he wasted no time in getting back to his story. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—” _Ladies and gentlemen and ladies of the jury of the Beacon Hills jury gentlemen._ “I am not here to convince you that Peter Hale was a good person.” _Just misunderstood._ “I’m here to show you that he was murdered in his sleep, stabbed in the heart without a fighting chance. I don’t know about you,” his eyes flicked over to Stiles for just a part of a second, but they said plenty on their own, “but that doesn’t sound like self-defense to me. We know every awful thing that happened to Mr. Stilinski.” It took absolutely every fiber of Stiles’s being to not scoff loudly at that moment, but—goddammit—he made it through.

“We understand that he was hurt—held against his will. We know that he was a victim. But does that inherently mean Peter Hale deserved to die?” Ms. Tecuatl had warned Stiles about the stance the prosecution was taking, but hearing it now for himself, the confidence in that man’s tone as he posed a philosophical question in a criminal trial, made Stiles want—not for the first time—to drop dead.

“Does anyone, for that matter, deserve to die? And if so, who gets to choose? These are the questions we’re asking today. Not just of you, or Mr. Stilinski, but of everyone. Should anyone, ever, be able to make that decision? Or should we stick to our morals, our constitution, and say that it is _never_ right?” Wow. Stiles hadn’t ever felt like more of a piece of shit than he did in that moment, and that was saying something considering the reason they were there in the first place. The prosecutor maintained eye contact with the jury for a second longer before, staring into their souls with his carefully calculated expression, before tapping the wooden partition and turning away, letting his head drop as though saddened.

“Your honor,” he proceeded, “I’d like to call the first witness up to the stand.” With a curt nod, the judge informed the bailiffs to escort this person in. Stiles didn’t recognize him—a middle-aged man with olive skin and a button-down shirt tucked into a nice pair of slacks. _A professional,_ he wanted to mock.

After the man was sworn in and took his seat up in the box of shame or whatever it was called, the Prosecution started back up with the same theatrical tone. “Sir, would you please introduce yourself to the court?”

The man leaned forward toward the microphone perched before him. He cleared his throat. “Yes, my name is Dr. Alonzo Frederickson. I’m a coroner at the _Chiliad County Medical Center_ in Colorado.”

“And you were the individual to lead Peter Hale’s autopsy, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Frederickson,” the Prosecutor said while straightening his tie. “Can you please tell the court what you discovered during your autopsy?”

Again, the man leaned forward, folding his hands on the surface before him. “Uh, well, first and foremost, there was a deep laceration to his chest which appeared to have punctured the heart—almost certainly the cause of death.”

“And how much strength would you say it would hypothetically take to stab someone in the heart?” the Prosecutor asked, turning so that his body was facing the jury once more, letting them know this was important information.

“Well, I suppose it depends largely on circumstance, but regardless, it would require pushing the weapon through thick layers of skin and muscle, and then most likely hit the ribcage. But in this case, the blade passed through the third and fourth right rib fairly easily.”

“Would that suggest to you that the attacker knew where to aim?”

The man paused. “Uh… I mean, possibly, but not necessarily.”

“Objection!” Ms. Tecuatl cried, leaping to her feet in protest. “Your honor, Mr. Dempster is leading the witness.” Oh, apparently this guy _did_ have a name.

“Sustained.”

“Apologies, your honor,” he continued, barely losing his composure for a second before flashing the courtroom a honey-sweet grin. “So, Dr. Frederickson, you said this stab wound was the most likely cause of death?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us what other major injuries you found?

“Um.” He shifted in his seat and opposing teams or no, Stiles couldn’t help but feel a sense of solidarity with this man who clearly didn’t want to be here anymore than he did. “Well, aside from that there were smaller, more superficial lacerations to his right side which all seemed a bit… awkward, I suppose.”

“Can you elaborate?”

The doctor stroked his chin, considering how best to put it in layman's terms. “They lacked the strength and steady hand of the first wound mentioned and were at something of an odd angle, suggesting to me that the attacker lost their bearings and were, perhaps, even swinging backward, behind themselves.”

Mr. Dempster leaned an arm against the penalty box (or whatever it’s called), flashing his signature ‘boy scout’ smile. “Now, when you say they were superficial, what does that mean exactly? Because to me, it sounds like a papercut.”

“No. No, not at all. The lacerations to Mr. Hale’s side were still deep enough to have sliced through layers of skin and muscle, but compared to puncturing an organ, that is technically speaking more superficial.”

“And, being stabbed in the heart, alone… what are the chances of making it out alive?”

The doctor sighed, drawing his lips in until his mouth was but a straight line. “In these circumstances,” he began slowly, cautiously, “so far away from any medical center… I’d have to say almost zero.”

Mr. Dempster turned to look at the jury once more as he asked, “In your professional opinion, did Peter stand a chance?”

The doctor looked down at his hands, allowing himself less than a second to glance Stiles’ way. “Once his heart was punctured, absolutely not.”

“Thank you, doctor.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> witnesses are called
> 
> (WARNING: this chapter includes graphic descriptions of injuries, violence, and life-threatening situations)

They took a quick recess for lunch, but Stiles couldn’t eat even if he had any semblance of an appetite. Stomach totally void of substance, he still worried he might projectile vomit at any moment. So far he’d been able to keep it together. But the prosecution still had the stand. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a non-Beacon Hills police uniform shifted in the witness box, unsure what to do with his hands.

“Will you please introduce yourself to the court?” The Prosecution asked.

The man cleared his throat, pursing his lips slightly in concentration. “Uh, hi. I’m Stephen Wilson, a detective in Chiliad County, Colorado.”

“And that is where Peter Hale’s body was found, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

Mr. Dempster leaned an elbow against the witness box, never actually making eye contact with the detective as he wasn’t part of the audience. “Is it true you were one of the first officers at the scene of the crime?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us, please, in your own words, what you found once you got there?”

The detective shifted again, eyes grazing over the floor as though reading his lines. “Well, obviously the body was our main priority—”

“Yes, but once you began inspecting the residence…” Stiles wondered to himself if the stick in this guy’s ass was any indication that he was, in fact, a department store mannequin come to life.

“The cabin was, uh, immaculately clean except for a few outlying things like shoe prints on the inside of a closer door, remnants of a fire in the fireplace, little spots of blood in odd places. And then, of course, there was part of a rope tied to a radiator in the living room.”

Dempster hummed in pretentiously faux thought. “Can you tell us more about this rope, detective?”

“Yes, it had been severed quite crudely and it, and the space around the radiator, were covered in a surprising amount of blood.”

“And were you able to piece together a likely scenario based upon the evidence found in the cabin?”

“Yes, sir. It was fairly cut-and-dry. Still sticking out of the body was a large glass shard we figured to be the murder weapon. It was sent to forensics anyway, but they only confirmed that suspicion.”

“Let the record show that this shard of glass was later determined to be the only weapon used on Mr. Hale. Please continue.”

“Uh, well, I—and later the members of my team—deduced that this piece of glass was almost certainly the tool used to cut the rope as well as attack the victim.”

“You mean Peter Hale?”

“Yeah--yes.”

“And how did you come to this conclusion?”

The detective sighed, dropping his head ever so slightly, and it was only then that Stiles realized the man had never once dared to make eye contact. “Well, first of all, it was the only blade in sight. We found a knife block in the kitchen, but all knives were accounted for. And considering the amount of blood on and around the rope, it seemed very obvious that whoever cut the rope was holding the glass tightly enough to slice their hand rather severely through repeated motions.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if you’ll turn your attention to the screen in front of you, you’ll see a photo taken of Mr. Stilinski’s hands during his preliminary physical examination.” Yup. There they were. But honestly, seeing them in that state, they didn’t look nearly as bad as Stiles remembered. “Detective Wilson, can you tell me what you see here?” _Some nasty shit. Hope no one’s squeamish._

“I see hands that have been cut rather severely.”

“Would you say this matches the wounds of whomever held that shard of glass?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Thank you, detective. You may take your seat.” Mr. Dempster folded his arms behind his back, taking a few slow, calculated steps out toward the jury. “Mr. Stilinski must have gotten that bit of glass from somewhere. Seeing as all other sharp objects in the house were out of reach, it’s safe to assume he must have hidden it. No weapons… easily accessible. A fire in the fireplace. Tied to the radiator—yes, but otherwise comfortable.”

“Objection!” Tecuatl cried, clearly getting as tired of this guy’s bullshit as Stiles himself. “Speculation.”

The judge stroked her temple in either thought or pain. “Dismissed,” she said. “ _This_ time.”

The prosecution held his hands up in surrender. He obviously meant no harm. He was simply trying to send a young man to prison for life. What a nice dude.

Taking a moment to realign his speech, he let his head fall, raising it moments later with a look of fake sympathy Stiles could only think of as sociopathic. “When Stiles Stilinski made the decision to kill Peter Hale, he was not in any immediate danger. In fact, he was cozied up near the fire.” _Cozy?!_ “His captor fast asleep on the other side of the room. There were no weapons around, except the one he hid on his person. No imminent threat. And in fact, Mr. Stilinski had the peace of mind and well-being to carry out his plan. Does that sound like self defense to you?” _Does that sound like an evil scheme,’_ Stiles wanted to scream to the jury. This lowly sonuvabitch was making it sound like they were on vacation! Like he wasn’t handcuffed to a radiator, but simply in _timeout_.

“Safe, strong, competent. He had been, at this point, with Peter for seven months. Had lived with him. Been fed and clothed by him.” _This is some fake goddamn news._ “It is clear to me that Peter did not plan on killing Mr. Stilinski. In fact, despite unlawful circumstances, he was caring for the young man. At the beginning, Mr. Stilinski even trusted Peter Hale enough to follow him out into a dark, empty parking lot.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you again—should _anyone_ have the right to take another human being’s life? At the end of this trial, you will have no trouble concluding that this was not an act of self-defense, but of pure malice. Peter Hale clearly cared for this boy. He kept him alive for seven months in harsh climates. And yes, he may have taken Mr. Stilinski against his will, but does that mean he inherently deserved the brutal death that befell him? I ask you to look past the hardened shell and poor choices of a severely traumatized man and return a verdict that may allow Peter’s soul to _finally_ be at rest. I ask you to return a verdict of guilty. Thank you for your time.”

Stiles sat perfectly still, eyes glued to a single spot on the table as he focused on breathing. Or rather, not breathing. Holding his breath until the world melted away. But before it could, a light tap on the shoulder brought him back. Ms. Tecuatl handed him a tissue. Apparently, he was crying. He hadn’t even noticed. Stiles was officially numb to the world, to his own body, his own feelings. They meant nothing. That much was clear.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah shit. nearly forgot to upload this. sorry, guys!
> 
> (WARNING: this chapter includes graphic descriptions of injuries, abuse, and life-threatening situations)

Tecuatl gave Stiles a firmly reassuring look as she stood from her chair and rounded the table to address the court. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the defense, I want to thank you for the sacrifice you’ve made in jury service, coming here and helping us seek justice.

“You’ve heard many things so far—that my client was cared for, protected. That when police found him, he was healthy and clear-minded. Just like any of us here today. But you have yet to hear the truth and that truth is, Peter Hale was a monster. Plain and simple. The prosecution would have you believe that the tragic loss of Mr. Hale’s family somehow excuses his actions. ‘He was troubled.’ But I would like to suggest that _perhaps_ … perhaps, none of that makes him anything less than he was: a sociopath.”

“Objection, you honor! Speculation,” Dempster shouted, saliva flying from his mouth like a rabid animal.

“Your honor, if the prosecution would give me time, I plan to support my claim with evidence.”

The judge, who at this point was scowling, nodded lightly. “The defense may proceed.”

“Thank you,” Tecuatl replied, fixing the lapels of her suit jacket as she recollected her thoughts. “My client, Mieczyslaw Stilinski, known to his loved ones and community as ‘Stiles,’ received no such ‘care’ while in the captivity of Peter Hale. So we are here to set the record straight, once and for all. When Stiles left that diner with Mr. Hale almost a year ago, he couldn’t possibly have imagined what kind of hell awaited him. Getting into that car was not equivalent to Stiles giving his consent to being abducted. In fact, he thought he was helping a friend. That _was_ what Peter told him. That was why they had to leave so urgently. Peter Hale told my client that his nephew, Derek, a friend of Stiles, was skipping town that night and that he needed Stiles’s help to persuade him to stay. As the defense has stated, Derek Hale was the only living relative of Peter’s, escalating the urgency of the situation. My client left that diner on a mission to help someone. To keep a family together. He followed Mr. Hale out into the unlit parking lot because Mr. Hale wove an intricate lie to appeal to his sense of empathy. And as Stiles climbed into the car, set out on a mission of altruism, he was knocked unconscious and taken captive by the man who only moments before had been begging for his help.

“Let’s skip ahead several hours and hundreds of miles. My client wakes up in the trunk of an unfamiliar car, hands and feet bound, already suffering from heat exhaustion. He is disoriented, as any of us would be. He has no idea where he is or what's happened since leaving that diner. He’s scared. I certainly would be. As would, I imagine, anyone in this room.

“Eventually, the car stops and the trunk is thrown open. Peter Hale drags Stiles out of the trunk and throws him onto the ground. He’s been locked in there for so long that the outdoor climate of the springtime New Mexico desert is a welcomed relief, because at least the air is moving. He readies himself to fight, unsure of what’s to come. Begins asking frantic questions—‘where are we,’ ‘what’s going on,’ ‘why am I here.’ Now, much of that first day is fuzzy for Stiles—slipping in and out of consciousness, living in pure survival mode—but the next thing he remembers clearly is being slashed across the face with something sharp. If you’ll turn to the screen before you, you’ll see a photo of the resulting scar,” she said, pointing a small remote at the tv at the front of the room now displaying one of many photos taken the day Stiles woke up in that hospital. Specifically, a close-up of the titular scar that has become a symbol of this case. Around the courtroom, he heard a few small gasps. This did not, however, make him feel any better. Members of the jury started craning their necks to try and see the state his scar was in now, scowling in disgust. “Not twelve hours in and he’s already been viciously disfigured.

“He’s led into an abandoned house, pictured here—” _Click._ The very sight of that place caused his blood to run cold. And, for a second, a reason he couldn’t explain, Stiles suddenly worried he was still there. That this was all a dream brought on by heat stroke. Liquid fire pooled into his lungs as fear took over, calmed only by the reappearance of Ms. Tecuatl’s voice, soft and yet powerful. “He was told to find something to stitch his face up while Peter rests from the long drive. Peter assures Stiles that if he fails to do so he will most likely bleed out and die. He says this with a smile. So my client, just seventeen at the time, with no medical training whatsoever, stitches the gaping wound with an unsanitized sewing needle and thread. Meaning the probability of developing an infection in that wound was greater than fifty-percent. Although, Stiles was fortunate in at least that regard.

“He begs Peter to show him any kindness whatsoever. Again, Peter only laughs, clearly enjoying the suffering he’s caused Stiles.”

“Objection, your honor! Ms. Tecuatl couldn’t possibly know what was going on inside Peter Hale’s mind,” Dempster shouted, poorly hiding a proud grin that he got to turn one of her earlier objections back around.

Tecuatl sighed, throwing her arms up at her sides. “All due respect, your honor, I don’t think it’s out of order to assume a man who is smiling and laughing is enjoying himself.”

“Body language is one thing, but being a mind-reader—”

“Enough!” The judge bellowed, at this point looking more like a tired mother than anything else. “Your objection is dismissed, Mr. Dempster, though…” She started, turning to glare at Tecuatl. “I would advise the prosecution be careful with what they present as facts.”

Tecuatl nodded, “yes, your honor,” bowing her head as she recollected her thoughts. “Over the next seven months, Peter Hale would force my client to clean whatever residence they temporarily took shelter in—to scrub and wash until his fingers were cracked and bleeding. Until his shoulders ached from work equivalent to that of hard labor we wouldn’t force upon those in our prisons. And how is he rewarded? By being thrown into a basement and locked inside.

“Stiles would come close to death so many times in this un-air-conditioned basement with little to no food or water that officials could not estimate a number.

“Over the course of this trial, you will see photos of the residences Stiles was forced to live in—I hesitate to call them ‘homes.’ You’ll see photos of his life at that time. In the words of Detective Wilson, the ‘immaculately clean’ hell. And you will come away knowing in your heart that this was not murder. It was not manslaughter. It was pure self-defense.”

“Okay, I think that’ll do it for today. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please go home, get a good night’s sleep, and return tomorrow morning at the same time. Court is adjourned.”

Scott and Lydia had barely left his side since the trial began, save for school days that didn’t conform to the world crumbling down around them and their own families insisting they _occasionally_ return home. Stiles kept reminding them that they didn’t need to be there, but he never went so far as to suggest they leave. Either way, they didn’t. All three sat quietly while the Sheriff drove home, the sound of the motor serving as white noise, allowing them to pretend, at the very least, that they chose not to speak out of contentment rather than fear.

They moved from the car to the living room in the same ghostly manner, “perking up” only once the Sheriff suggested they get take-out. And once conversation started, returning to silence seemed like torture.

“Oh my god. I’m so hungry, dude,” Scott chimed in, the combined athlete-werewolf metabolism draining him by the second.

“Get some water,” Lydia instructed, not bothering to look up and away from the paper menu they’d just ordered from. “Thirty-seven-percent of all people regularly mistake hunger for thirst and also hydration is just, like, important.” Closing his mouth that’d been ready to argue, Scott did as he was told, downing three large glasses of water as though this was the first time he’d thought to have a drink in weeks. As he returned to the living room, Lydia shot Stiles a sideways look of incredulity and despite himself, he smiled. And in that moment, he realized… this could very well be the last time they’d get to spend together.

Climbing to his feet, he ignored the protest of his friends, shuffling into the kitchen and grabbing a large, glass bottle out from underneath the sink along with three cups from the dishrack. He carefully eyeballed out three roughly similar portions of orange juice and vodka before setting them onto the coffee table and raising his own in toast. Scott and Lydia followed suit, not entirely sure what was happening, but determined to play along.

“To…” Stiles trailed off, wracking his brain for the perfect thing. “To us, I guess. And to happy memories. May there still be some to make.” The glasses clinked softly as though afraid they might anger fate. The evening carried on into night, Stiles’s friends determined to get him to bed at a reasonable hour despite their own intoxication. Eventually, all three passed out in his room, Stiles and Lydia sharing the bed while Scott slept in a chair nearby, each sleeping soundly, comfortably, for the first time in a while.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter includes graphic descriptions of injuries and life-threatening situations

“I understand the defense would like to bring in a witness?” The judge said, allowing her glasses to slide down her nose as she skimmed over her notes.

Ms. Tecuatl stood, brushing any wrinkles from her perfectly tailored slacks. “Yes, your honor. I’d like to call my first witness up to the stand: Mr. Alan Myers.” It’d been so long, Stiles didn’t register the name. At least, not until a man, with strawberry blonde hair covering everything except the top of his head and a beer belly so magnificent it’d put the  _ American Dream _ to shame, entered the courtroom.  _ Big Al. _ A smile crept over his lips for the first time that day. First time  _ that case _ . Jesus, first time since…? Nevermind. Big Al shot him a sideways grin as he passed down the aisle.

“Good morning, sir. Would you please introduce yourself to the court?”

“Uh, yes,” he started, the twisted vowels of his rural accent like music to Stiles’s ears. “My name is Alan Myers. I own a diner called  _ ‘Big Al’s’ _ in Elizondo, New Mexico with my lovely wife of thirty years.”

“Did you happen to be working there on August the 12 th of last year?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“And, at any point on that day, did you happen to serve my client in your restaurant?” She gestured back toward Stiles for posterity.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I imagine many people must come through every day. How can you be sure it was my client, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Well,” he said, leaning closer toward the mic. “Because I’d seen his picture on the news maybe once or twice before then. But I didn’t recognize him right off. It wasn’t till a few hours later that I put two and two together.”

“At which point you called the local police, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. As soon as I realized. But I was kicking myself for taking so  _ damn  _ long--Oh, pardon me, your honor. I’m so sorry.”

“And when you saw my client, was he with anybody?”

“An older man who I assumed was his father.”

“Why did you assume this?”

“Well, because, at the time, what with his size and all, I just thought Mr. Stilinski was several years younger than he is. And the man with him was… I guess you might say ‘authoritative.’”

“What makes you say that?”

“The boy was clearly afraid of him. I just assumed he was strict, ya know?”

“So then, at what point did you suspect there might be more going on than just a strict father and his son?”

“It wasn’t ‘til I got a good look at the boy.”

“And what did you see?”

“Well,” Al shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “For one thing, he looked like he hadn’t eaten in a week. And he had real long, greasy hair. He also had on a baseball cap pulled down real low like he was trying to hide his face. But we looked at each other at one point and I just thought, ‘christ, this kid looks like he’s already died.’”

“Can you please elaborate for the court on what you mean?”

“He just… He was all skin and bones. Real dark eyes, kinda sunken in. Didn’t help that his whole face was sunken in. I swear to god, his wrists were the size of twigs.”

“And this alarmed you?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t call the police until much later?”

“I thought he was probably sick or something. Ya know, it isn’t my business. I just let it go until I remembered his face from the news.”

“And why do you think it took you so long to recognize a face you’d just seen photos of?”

He sighed, casting his eyes down. “If you’d seen him, you wouldn’t have thought that was the same kid either.”

“Thank you, sir. You may step down.”

The next witness was the guy who found Stiles. Seeing him, especially in person, only a few yards away, was strange. Stiles knew of him. He’d seen a photo or two in the paper. He knew he was there, being the one found, but seeing this man for himself felt almost like a dream. His name was “Ben Saragossa” and he had the exact sort of beard you’d expect from a young man who lived in rural Colorado.

“Where do you live, Mr. Saragossa?” Tecuatl asked.

“I live in Chiliad, Colorado. Kinda up into the mountains.”

“Were you home the morning of November 23 rd of last year?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please tell the court what happened that morning?”

“Yeah, um, so… Bear, my dog, woke me up at the crack of dawn because he was barking at something and wouldn’t stop. He’s really well trained so usually a bird or something might catch his eye, but when I tell him to stop, he stops, ya know?”

“But not this time?”

“No. I wasn’t really thinking about it at the time since he’d just woken me up and I guess I was mostly feeling annoyed about that. But so I got up out of bed, grabbed hold of his collar, and tried to lead him back to the room, but he absolutely wouldn’t budge from the screen door that faces out into the backyard. And that’s when I noticed the outdoor lights were on.”

“And this was odd?”

“Kinda. They’ve got motion-sensors and, being that far into the mountains, plenty of critters walk by and trigger the lights, we get the odd mountain lion or what-have-you. But it was that  _ and _ Bear barking—I just had this feeling like something was wrong.”

“So what did you do next?”

“I started looking around outside to see what was causing all the commotion, and then I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

The man furrowed his brow like he was looking back through time and space at that exact spot. “Well, from where I was standing, it just looked like a pile of clothes, but then I saw hair sticking out from the snow and blood kinda on and around him. So I put Bear on his leash (just in case some crazy person had passed out in my yard), and went over, and I saw him—this kid, laying face down in the snow with no shoes or jacket or anything which would have been weird enough except we’d had a blizzard that night.”

“Mr. Saragossa, do you see this person in the courtroom with you today?”

He looked straight at Stiles, all color draining from his face, and said, “Yes, he’s right there.”

“Let the record show Mr. Saragossa is pointing at my client, Mr. Stilinski.” Clapping her hands together in front of her, Tecuatl continued speaking to the witness. “So you said he was bloody and without shoes or a jacket.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you notice anything else strange?”

The man scoffed and shook his head as if to say ‘where should I begin?’ “He…” Ben swallowed hard around a lump in his throat. “He looked like a corpse. I mean, I thought he  _ was _ at first. But then I turned him over and held a hand just over his mouth so I could feel if he was breathing and he was. To be honest, I couldn’t believe it. So I picked him up and took him inside and called the police. I thought he was just a kid.” He paused, taking a deep breath as he remembered that day. “His feet were so mangled, I… I bandaged them up as well as I could ‘cause I was worried he might lose them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Saragossa.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles addresses the court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter includes graphic descriptions of injuries and abuse as well as post traumatic stress

Having your therapist sit in the witness box at your trial was not unlike having someone read your diary over an intercom. Except, in this case, the information shared could send you to prison for the rest of your life.

Dr. DeMayo was careful not to make eye contact with Stiles in the courtroom as everything relied on her ability to be objective. Still, what Stiles wouldn’t have given for one of those reassuring smiles. Tecuatl asked her the normal, preemptive stuff—who are you, what do you do, why are you important? DeMayo explained that she was the first and only psychiatrist to speak with Stiles after his escape and how this evolved into weekly counseling sessions.

“Can you tell us what you observed about Mr. Stilinski when you first spoke?”

“The best word to describe his state at the time is ‘disoriented.’”

“Can you explain what you mean?”

The corners of her mouth pulled back as her eyes roamed in thought. “To him, it had almost seemed like he’d blinked somewhere in Colorado and then opened his eyes in Beacon Hills. Stiles had no memory of coming home, probably because he was so physically and mentally exhausted he slept off-and-on for several days. There’s a very important transitionary period in cases like this.”

“How so?”

“Well, the mind is healing, but it’s still quite broken. You have to help the patient to feel safe. Make sure they have time to adjust to being home as opposed to the abruptness with which they’re abducted.”

“And how did Mr. Stilinski do during this ‘transitional period?’”

She pressed her lips together. “Everyone reacts to trauma differently. In Stiles’s case, he’d been abducted by someone he knew, taken all over the western part of the country, tortured repeatedly, and manipulated into never feeling safe. When he woke up, he was hypervigilant, extremely wary of everyone around him. He was still holding onto this victim-like mindset that he had to protect himself because no one else was going to do it.”

“What were you able to deduce about him during this time?”

DeMayo sighed, fighting against her instinct to frown deeply. “That he had been abused in such a strategic way no single part of the world felt safe to him anymore. While, in the same vain, his instinct to be subservient was controlling his every movement. It’s one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen.” Leaning forward, DeMayo gripped the edge of the witness box, a sudden fervor overtaking her. “If anyone in this room still doubts the extent of the cruelty Stiles was made to endure those seven months, I ask them to take one look at his medical records and still call it murder. This boy has been permanently disabled by the hand of one man. Who in their right mind—”

“Ms. Tecuatl,” the judge spoke up, “please control your witness.”

Before Tecuatl could even respond, DeMayo was sitting back in her chair, running a hand over her tensed face and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” A few moments passed in silence as the courtroom stood still, stunned by the outcry that turned the calm, procedural atmosphere on its head.

Tecuatl said something to the judge before turning to rejoin Stiles at the table, his ears ringing too loudly to make out any individual words as the world spun around him, tilted on its axis. It was all he could do to stay upright. And then Dempster stepped forward, running a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair to ensure it was still greased into place. Although he could rest assured—it hadn’t moved all day.

“Doctor,” he started, “you’re clearly very close to this case.”

She bowed her head, ashamed at knowing her outburst had given him the upper hand. “Yes. I’ve been counseling Stiles since he first woke up in the hospital.”

“And you say that Mr. Stilinski has been disabled by the time he spent with Peter Hale.”

“Yes, he’s suffered minor brain damage, signs of frostbite on both feet with third degree burns on one as well. He’s lost considerable muscle mass from starvation. Has nerve damage from the lacerations caused by gripping that shard of glass--”

“So then it must have taken more than the strength he possessed to kill Mr. Hale. Even choosing to attack while he was asleep, Mr. Stilinski stood no real chance against a healthy, grown man.”

“Objection, your honor,” Tecuatl spoke up. “Is there a question here?”

The judge turned to face Dempster who raised a hand as if to say ‘give me one moment.’ “In your medical opinion, Dr. DeMayo, what would you say are the chances of someone in a physical state such as that of Mr. Stilinski at the time of the assault, overpowering a strong, healthy, grown man?”

Her eyebrows knitted together, no one quite sure where he was going with this line of questions. “Slim. Incredibly slim without the aid of considerable adrenaline.”

“And, remind me, Doctor, does adrenaline ever accompany anger?”

She glanced around the room, chest rising and falling heavily, knowing the prosecution was about to get the answer he wanted. “Yes.”

“Interesting. So, for someone in Mr. Stilinski’s position to be able to take the life of someone over twice his size, he would need more rage bottled up inside him than probably any of us experience throughout our entire lives.” It wasn’t a question. He turned to face the jury as he spoke. “To attack someone, with  _ that amount of rage, _ as they slept, defenseless. Hiding a makeshift weapon on his person. Successfully puncturing his heart… Is that not the textbook definition of ‘premeditated?’ When Peter Hales’ body was found, it had been stabbed five times.  _ First  _ in the heart. And then four more times in his side. Mr. Stilinski was so weak there’s no way he could have pulled it off unless given considerable forethought. Under any other circumstances, no one would refer to that as ‘self-defense.’

“I rest my case.”

“Ms. Tecuatl, does your client wish to address the court?”

“Yes, your honor.”

Stiles looked to Tecuatl for permission before climbing uneasily to his feet, momentarily expecting them to be shackled together. “I, um—” He cleared his throat, trying to stop the room spinning, his mind racing. Why was he dizzy? Had he eaten? If he didn’t eat, he could faint. If he fainted that might make him look guilty. When was the last time he ate? Oh my god, what even was the last thing he could remember? Was any of this real or was it just some grand test? A level of hell designed especially for pieces of shit like him. Tecuatl coughed lightly and raised her hand to his forearm, drawing him back to reality. He looked down at her, awarding him just enough solidarity to end the case.

“I… I wish—more than anything—that I’d never had to do…” He took a deep breath for posterity, “what I did. But, I don’t regret it.” The room began to stir ever so slightly, roused by his honesty. “I’d still be there now if I hadn’t. Or somewhere else. Probably somewhere far away where no one would even think to be looking for some ‘dumb runaway kid.’” As he spoke, emotions overwhelming, Stiles let his eyes unfocus themselves, drifting downward as though speaking to no one but himself. “If it weren’t for Big Al—uh, Alan Myers—they would’ve stopped looking a long time ago. And I wouldn’t be dead. I thought that at first too. I guess that’s where your mind goes when you try to make sense of something like that. I thought he was going to kill me from the first moment I woke up in the trunk of that car. It was what I thought the first time he attacked me. The first time he locked me in the basement. Let me go days without water. Held my head underwater to stop me crying. There were hundreds of chances for him to let me die without laying a finger on me. And I guess that’s when I realized… he was never going to let that happen.

“I still have nightmares about what I did. Every night, actually. Even during the day, the thoughts will creep into my head and it’s all I can do not to walk into on-coming traffic. I wish I could’ve gone my whole life without ever hurting another person, but I would have sooner died on the side of some mountain where no one would ever find me than spend another day as…” Tears flooded his eyes, something the size of a grapefruit lodging itself in his throat, chest super-heating with the magma-like guilt he’d tried so hard to escape. Pressing his hands flat against the table, Stiles’s head dropped, taking slow deep breaths in an attempt to recollect his consciousness as it fragmented like the critical glass mentioned time and time again. Before he knew what was happening, Stiles felt himself become whole again. No missing pieces or fragments barely holding on. A heavy calm enveloped him, wrapping its arms around his body to tell him (for the first time) that he was safe. Looking around the room, he’d never noticed how the courtroom windows turned the daylight an outstanding shade of gold, rich enough to bathe in.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked up, braving eye-contact with those around him. He inhaled one last time, chest puffing up as though filling with the warm, golden air. And finally, he spoke. “Although,” he started, a bittersweet smile nearly creeping its way onto his face. “I’m not there. And I never will be again. If I stayed, I would’ve never been rid of Peter, but… that isn’t what happened. I am well and truly rid of him. And whether I spend the rest of my life in prison or not, nothing can ever change the fact that I got away. For the rest of my life, no matter what, no matter where I am, I’ll always be free. And that’s not something anyone can take away from me. Thank you.” He took a seat, not bothering to read the faces of the people deciding his fate. After all, it didn’t really matter. If he could make it through those seven months with Peter, he could make it through anything. Prison be damned.

“At this time, members of the jury are dismissed to deliberate on a verdict. Court is in recess until a decision has been made.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we've made it to the last chapter, I'd just like to thank everyone who's read and liked and commented on this whole series. I certainly hadn't expected to spend four years on it or to write any sequels at all, but it just sort of happened. I also hadn't expected it to get as big of a response as it did and can't thank you enough for that.  
> So, I welcome you to the FINAL final chapter and wish you all the best. <3

One hour turned into two. And then three. And then four. And then Stiles was told to go home for the night as it was unlikely a decision would be made that day.

That evening as he lay in bed, flipping mindlessly through old comics, a knock on the doorway drew him from his stupor. “Can I come in?” his dad asked. Stiles nodded and scooted over to make room for him. Noah slipped his shoes off before sliding in beside his son, something Stiles appreciated as it was so quintessentially his dad. “You know that I love you, Stiles. And whatever happens—” He paused, voice breaking at the thought of what was to come. “Whatever happens won’t change that. You did what you had to do and I will always support you.”

A small “thanks” was all Stiles would muster in response, leaning over to rest his head on his dad’s shoulder, taking careful note to remember everything about this moment. Just in case. The way he smelled of burnt coffee and aftershave, how itchy his stubbly face was against Stiles’ head. The enveloping warmth of being held and loved. He didn’t ever want to forget it.

“They won’t send you away,” Noah whispered. “They can’t.”

Stiles almost laughed. “They can.”

“They won’t. Not if a single one of them has a soul.” Stiles said nothing, sure he couldn’t comfort his father. For a moment, he couldn’t help but get his hopes up—if any one of the jurors was anything like his dad, maybe he still had a chance. However slim.

Stiles fell asleep that night by his father’s side, dreaming of a merciful future. One where he had even a one-in-a-million chance of regaining a ‘normal life.’ It was the first nightmareless rest he’d had in almost a year, thinking about how the mandatory prison bedtimes would probably do wonders for his sleep schedule.

The next day, they were called back to the courthouse. The jury had made a decision. Entering the room, he realized how much more nervous his dad was than him, as if carrying the stress for them both. Stiles, ready for whatever the future may hold, gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before leaving him to sit on his own, as much a bystander as anyone else.

The judge entered the room. Everyone stood. It wasn’t until this moment that the severity of the situation hit him. How much of his life this one decision would control. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was free, no matter what. Nothing could take that away.

“You may be seated,” the judge spoke. “Let the record reflect that the defendant is present along with counsel for the defendant. Both sides ready to proceed?” Tecuatl and Dempster nodded in unison. “It has been brought to my attention that the jury has reached a verdict.” Stiles could feel his heart beating in his throat. “Let’s return the jury.” One-by-one they entered the courtroom, filing into their respective seats.  _ Beat. _ A few couldn’t help but glance his way.  _ Beat. _

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“Yes, your honor.”  _ Beat. _

“Will the defendant rise along with counsel? Madam clerk, you may publish the verdict.”  _ Beat. _

A woman at the front of the jurors picked up a pair of glasses hanging around her neck by a beaded chain, setting them on the edge of her nose to read from a paper in her hand. “For the case of California v. M. Stilinski, on the charge of second-degree murder, we the jury find the defendant—”  _ Beat. _ “Not guilty. So say we all.”

Before Stiles could even digest the news, the courtroom erupted into applause. Something about this sound made him think he misheard the woman, turning to Tecuatl for confirmation whose smile was unmistakable. They’d won. He heard right.  _ Not guilty. _ And people were actually happy for him. The judge bellowed for everyone to calm down as tears rolled down his smiling face, tense and twisted like the muscles had gone dormant.  _ Not guilty.  _ Case closed. Court adjourned. Stiles Stilinski was finally, inarguably, a free man.

THE END.


End file.
